


All Hail West Texas

by becauseyosbdemandsit



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Gen, M/M, hi susan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becauseyosbdemandsit/pseuds/becauseyosbdemandsit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vaguely-crack-like, WIP, intended to be a crossover with AHS (will add tags if that happens, oh god, I have no idea how to use this website). A barkeep and his pets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hail West Texas

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I haven't read any of the ASOIAF books. I only know about Jeyne Poole because the friend I wrote this for writes big fat ugly baby tears about her weirdo headcanon involving... It's a long story, actually, and I've heard it so many times I lose track of what's part of her story and what's part of the books that I haven't read yet.
> 
> So, to anyone besides that friend who might wind up reading this, I deeply apologize??? To that friend; enjoy, you weirdo.

It was a pretty plain tavern, one that could have existed on just about any run-down crossroads at the edge of any shitty little rural town. Four beers on tap, and requests for an IPA will get you nothing but a stink eye and a full inch-and-a-half of foam on top of your warm, tart, light beer. There’s a dart board painted on the wall in the corner, but there haven’t been darts for years. Two TV screens above the bar, on either end, angled to make it obvious that they are just as much there for the barkeep as any of the patrons. The mirror behind the bar is cracked, misty, and just as abandoned as the rarely-wiped-down tables look.

 

There is no jukebox.

 

It doesn’t matter what year it is, at this bar. Whether they ride up on horseback or hovercrafts, the customers - predominantly gruff, quiet men with leathery skin and knots of scar tissue, of course - could agree on one thing. They aren’t there to watch the game or shoot the shit with the bartender or catch up on town gossip.

 

Roose Bolton pours all four horsemen and he doesn’t give two shits if you walk in to his tavern covered in blood without bearing a single injury. He doesn’t bat an eye. It doesn’t matter to him which dead man’s pocket your money came out of, so long as you can pay and get yourself home without him having to make any phone calls.

 

There is something about his terrible pale gaze that makes a guilty man honest, though. Old man never raises his voices above a whisper.

 

He’s got a fucking obnoxious son that strolls into the tavern every now-and-again. Boy’s a mess. Where Ol’ Roose is quiet and threatening and generally spooky, young bastar- excuse, _master_ \- Ramsay’s about as intimidating as a yapping dog on a sunny day. His sharp, white teeth promise violence, but you still wanna stick your hand through the fence and tease that you’re gonna have ‘im fixed one of these days.

 

Ramsay’s not the only pet Ol’ Roose keeps around. Ramsay thinks the others are his pets, but dogs just can’t own anything in this world.

 

First it was Reek, but then Reek died, so Ramsay got a _new_ Reek.

 

If Ramsay was a snarling dog, Theon was a cat. Dark, lean, and on his own, perpetually grinning. Fast, just not fast enough to get away.

  
And then there was the little mournful songbird.


End file.
